


new days

by whiskeycherrypie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s14e05 Nightmare Logic, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Season/Series 14, Season/Series 14 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 02:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeycherrypie/pseuds/whiskeycherrypie
Summary: It figures. It fucking figures. It's the infamous Winchester luck.He and Sam had, what? Twelve, thirteen years together, as adults, when they could count on having total privacy nearly all the time? Or maybe notprivacy,thin motel walls tend not to afford all that much of it, butanonymityat least.Set vaguely around 14.05. Things are about to change between Sam and Dean, but the bunker is full of people.





	new days

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles* Okay, here we go.

It figures. It fucking figures. It's the infamous Winchester luck.

 

He and Sam had, what? Twelve, thirteen years together, as adults, when they could count on having total privacy nearly all the time? Or maybe not _privacy_ , thin motel walls tend not to afford all that much of it, but _anonymity_ at least. Which was even better, because shit happens. Hands slip, curtains don't get shut tight enough, but hey, who would have known? At worst, they could have feared some snickering about office romance between FBI agents. Or something.

 

But no, they didn't know how good they had it. It could have been just them, all those years, driving across the country back and forth, doing whatever the hell they pleased. Together. To each other.

 

And they didn't.

 

Curled around one of his pillows, Dean tries to really dig deep and figure out how far this goes. He's just not sure. It's Sam and Sam is... Sam is kinda everything, but Dean is used to that. He has no idea where the line lies.

 

So no, he's not all that sure how long he has wanted this and where it's coming from, but it's here now.

 

And as luck would have it, so are like twenty, thirty other people. People who know they're brothers. People who _live_ with them.

 

The bunker would have had not just anonymity, but the best guarded privacy too. Just he and Sammy, the world locked out by salt and steel. It would have been glorious. And the shower pressure here...

 

Yeah.

 

The door opens after a perfunctory knock and Dean sits up slowly as Sam walks in, immediately shutting the door after himself with his shoulder, like he's sneaking in. He's juggling a laptop underneath one arm and a bottle with two glasses in his hands, fumbling.

 

Dean gets up and takes it from him, eyebrows rising when he reads the label on the bottle while Sam kicks off his shoes and perches on the bed, against the headboard, opening the laptop. It's not whiskey that Sam brought, it's rum.

 

“Really?”

 

Sam only glances at him briefly, fingers clacking on the keyboard.

 

“It's strong. It's sweet. Think of it as a nightcap and a midnight snack all in one.”

 

Turning around to hide his smile, Dean plops the glasses on his dresser and pours into them, generously before setting the bottle to reach on the nightstand and sitting on the bed next to Sam with the glasses.

 

They shuffle around until pillows are distributed and the laptop screen is tilted to satisfaction, rum glasses clinked and their contents sampled.

 

So far it's mostly normal, the way it used to be. Sam starts the movie, but, _oh yeah_ , the difference is this time they're pressed hip to toe, shoulders brushing. That is, until no more than thirty seconds of the movie pass and Sam huffs, switching his glass to his other hand and stretching his arm around Dean's shoulders.

 

They've been quiet, nothing much needing to be said as they set up their movie night, but now the silence changes, like a breath held. Dean sips his rum. Sam was right, it's no weaker than his usual whiskey is, but the sweetness is interesting. It might discourage him from chugging it straight from the bottle, but that's probably a good thing.

 

Once Dean gets used to the warmth of Sam pressed against him, he notices how still he is, tense even. His brother can be a fidget, but now he's holding himself stiff and Dean searches for something to say.

 

But really, what _can_ he say?

 

He drops his head back, resting it more firmly on Sam's biceps. “Relax.”

 

“I am relaxed,” Sam says and Dean hears the smile in his voice.

 

Ten minutes and Dean starts to wonder if it's _him_ who can't relax. Because yeah, Sam is quiet, but he seems to have all but melted into Dean's side, glass left sitting empty precariously on the covers next to his thigh.

 

“Did you lock the door behind you?”

 

He didn't. Dean knows that.

 

Sam snorts. “Why? Are you planning on doing something that needs a locked door?”

 

Okay, now that's just dumb.

 

“Sammy, we're already doing something that needs a locked door. Your little hunter kindergarten-”

 

“Whoa, what do you mean?” Sam interrupts him, shifting back a little so that he can turn and look at Dean. A twinge of panic wraps itself around Dean's stomach. _Fuck._ They haven't actually... talked about this. Or done anything. But. Cuddling. They're cuddling right the fuck now, so what is Sam confused about here?

 

Slowly, Dean points between them, neck level, to indicate Sam's arm.

 

“This?” Sam gives him a firmer squeeze. “You think nobody can see _this_?”

 

“And you think they _can_?” Fuck, fuckitty fuck. “Sammy, what exactly do you think we're doing here?”

 

Sam's expression closes off and Dean is about three seconds from bolting. Never mind that they're in his room. He'll sleep in the car if he has to.

 

“I think what we're doing is _our_ business and nobody else's.”

 

Dean waits a beat, then nods slowly, like his brother is dumb, which he possibly is. “That's what I'm saying. And it's kinda hard to do, with fucking _everyone_ from apocalypse world living in our home.”

 

Sam exhales slowly through his nose, expression going softer. “I know it's not ideal. But you... I mean, if they see something they don't like, they're free to leave.”

 

Dean can't quite believe what he's hearing here. “So let me get this straight. You're okay with us being, I don't know, walked in on, because you figure if someone says something, you'll just kick them out?”

 

“Pretty much, yeah,” Sam says curtly, then deflates. “I mean, we wouldn't flaunt it but... Dean, look at this, we've not even done anything, we haven't talked about _each other_ and we're making up all these potential scenarios about others and...”

 

“I hear ya,” Dean nods, knocking his temple briefly against Sam's. Leave it to them to make everything so damn complicated. Dean wants to relax, bask in it, enjoy the long stretch of his brother next to him, wants to... Damn, he's only really gone there a couple of times in his mind, but he wants to feel that warmth with nothing between them, wants to learn and taste-

 

But.

 

“And what about mom?”

 

Sam tenses at this, then taps at the laptop to shut the movie off and stretches out to put the laptop away. Dean would have preferred for the movie to serve as a buffer, as a sound screen. Now it's just them, breathing. And somewhere beyond that, the sounds of a decidedly _not empty_ bunker.

 

Sam sits, one leg drawn under him, his knees pressed to the side of Dean's thigh. He's leaning forward, fingers fiddling across the pattern of Dean's shirt.

 

“Look. I love mom. Her being back is probably the most weirdly happy, lucky thing to ever happen to us. But.”

 

Like a man standing over a chasm, Dean suddenly realizes that Sam isn't nervous because he's ashamed of what he's saying. No, he's nervous because he's going to drop some big crazy bomb on Dean, the kind that's gonna leave Dean breathless and disbelieving that this is something that lives in his brother's brain.

 

“I love mom, but if she asked me to pick between you or her, I would choose you.”

 

Dean catches Sam's hands in his own, stilling them. Then, just because it's not fair there's all this teeth-pulling talking and no funsies to make it worth it, he brings them up and randomly half-nips, half kisses Sam's knuckles.

 

“Sammy, she wouldn't be asking you to pick between me or her. She would be asking you, asking _us,_ to stop. Stop and be, you know. Not be.”

 

Sam takes advantage of the proximity and drags the pad of his thumb across Dean's lower lip, staring as he does. “And is there really a difference at this point?”

 

Dean wants to say yes. Yes, there is a difference, dammit. There are lines.

 

But what's more intimate, really? Selling your soul for someone, dying for them all over again, damning the world just to keep them close, or tasting their mouth?

 

“Come here,” Dean whispers. Sam does, all clumsy seven fucking feet of him, warm, dry hands cupping Dean's face and holding him in place as they kiss. It's a brush of lips at first, weirdly familiar to all the thousands, millions of skin on skin touches that they've known their whole lives. But then Dean opens his mouth and Sam is right there, pushing, hot, wet.

 

And that's nothing like they've known before.

 

It all comes roaring back to Dean, all the thoughts and feelings that have actually landed them here, on his bed, the tension of the past couple of months, the mounting need that he couldn't even begin to untangle.

 

This is simple. This he knows how to do, even if it's Sam. Or especially because it's Sam. Dean knows Sam and he knows how to kiss and how to-

 

It's so good his brain short circuits for a second. Sam-Sam- _Sammy_ all up in his space, pushing him into the bed and Dean grabs at him, dragging his fingers through that mess of a haircut before dropping his hands lower, _way lower_ , to squeeze his ass. A laugh bubbles between their lips at that and Dean smiles back, feeling near damn high with how doing this manages to wipe his head free of bullshit.

 

They break off, breathing hard, after a couple of minutes and sprawl on the bed all tangled up with each other. Dean's hard in his jeans and it will be nice to take care of that in a bit, but he's content to draw it out, to finally take the two threads – the thread of Sam being the person he knows and loves the best and the thread of sex and wanting – and tie them together, see how they fit.

 

So far, it's looking pretty great.

 

“Do you wish we'd done this earlier?” he asks Sam, feeling him shrug in response and tighten his hold around him.

 

“I don't know. I guess I'm gonna end up wishing I was bendier and could get it up for you three times a day, but we've been through so much shit, man, who knows what this would have done to us.”

 

Dean is torn between the smack of arousal that floods him at the mention of _bendiness_ and _three times a day_ and between stopping his mind from going down the rabbit hole of some of their less than great hits. But the latter is baggage. And he's been doing his best to leave the baggage behind.

 

He hums noncommittally when he realizes Sam is waiting for an answer and gives him a quick kiss. “Well, we're here now. Just you, me and your flock of interns.”

 

Sam groans, taking his revenge by hitching a thigh between Dean's legs and rubbing at him teasingly.

 

“I'm never gonna live this down, am I?”

 

“I don't know, Sammy. Why don't you show me your moves and shut me up?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [whiskeycherrypie.tumblr.com](https://whiskeycherrypie.tumblr.com)


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